Ripples in the River
by Bluefire Eternal
Summary: Like a river, time flows ever onward. Light or dark, we all flow from the same source. Someone's past is another's present. Someone's present is another's future. Companion piece to TRR; one-shots set before, during, and after the series. Spoilers abound.
1. Embers

**_Ripples in the River_ is a companion series to my epic _Twilight Rider Redux,_ a crossover between _The Legend of Zelda: Twilight Princess_ and _The Inheritance_. It's a series of one-shots that further delve into the aspects of what happened before and during the series, as well as a view glimpses of what happened after ;)  
**

 **That said, MAJOR SPOILERS AHEAD. Like, don't read until you've completed the epilogue.**

 **Era: Before _Prelude 2: The Eye of the Storm..._ and after _Epilogue: A Medley._**

 _"Atra esterni ono thelduin, Togira Ikonoka."_ Sharp gray eyes flicked upward with another acknowledging finger to the lips. _"Un atra esterni ono thelduin, Glaedr Gulskular."_

 _"Mor'ranr lifa unin hjarta onr, Islanzadi Drottning."_ Oromis had no qualms on wishing Islanzadi peace in her heart on his and Glaedr's behalf. It was an earnest desire that transcended the customary greeting. No elf had truly known peace since the day Galbatorix had made a gruesome display of cutting down King Evandar in the Battle of Ilirea.

 _"Un du evarinya ono varda."_ Islanzadi turned glance out over the forest of Du Weldenvarden. From the Crags of Tel'naeir her domain looked an unending carpet of green. "Fate has been most merciful as of late, has it not? Not only has our blessed she-dragon hatched, but has breathed her first flame. She and her Rider have made it to the refuge of our realm."

Outwardly Oromis did not twitch at the meaningful slights, that of the title the queen had chosen to address him by and the reminder of her royal authority, but Glaedr's lip twitched all the same. A Cripple-Who-Is-Whole was a cripple all the same, reduced to hiding in the forest as Kialandi's wrathful curse upon him had long survived its caster. Ruler of the Riders Oromis may have been, but only by virtue of outlasting the others. His Order numbered one green human boy and a fledgling. Vroengard was a blighted ruin and Ilirea ruins beneath Urubaen.

 _What's she on about?_ Glaedr grumbled privately. The same reverence that prevented Islanzadi from simply connecting her mind to his let him simmer in peace.

"Please, Islanzadi, speak your heart. You are among equals and far from courtiers who would flinch at the lack of formality."

The queen of elves speared him with a stare that had left arrogant nobles groveling at her feet for forgiveness. "Very well, Oromis. Had you revealed the boy's existence to me sooner then I could have better secured our people's last hope. Perhaps even Brom Dragonless would still be alive to to help you mentor them." Glaedr rumbled, nostrils billowing with smoke. Islanzadi ignored him. "Egregious as it was, your transgression has been forgiven. One could even call it a blessing in disguise."

A dragon's fury burned. An elf's ran cold as ice. "What are you implying, o queen by her people's grace?" Islanzadi's claim to the throne was derived from Evandar, a century dead. Arya, a century old and having delivered a Rider to the elves, could well challenge her for it if she ever mastered her temper.

"Under your vigilance the world's first true Rider in a century nearly got himself killed by a Shade and took the she-dragon with him!" she snapped. "The scar upon his back was dealt by a Shade. It can never be healed. Such a curse is too foul for even our best healers to unravel. To send him out into battle again would be a death sentence."

Oromis folded his hands into their sleeves to hide their furious tremble. "We groom Eragon Shadeslayer and Saphira Brightscales to lead the next generation, not to die in some suicidal stand against the traitor."

"What _next_ generation, Oromis? Any future eggs must be born from her, the world's last she-dragon. And there is but one suitable male left to sire them."

Glaedr, up until then the strong mountain at his side, shuddered in revulsion. Had she hatched at the Order's height Saphira would have still been mentored alongside other fledglings in her creche, not yet old enough for her and her Rider to be apprenticed to an individual master. In a sense Saphira was less than hatchling. Even a hatchling learned from parents or creche elders. Guided only by primal instinct and the ghosts of ancestral memory, Saphira had no grounding with her own kind. Her amorous advances were born of desperate yearning for a deeper connection to their race than a healthy sexual desire.

 _Saphira burns with a fire all her own,_ Glaedr said resolutely. _Her fate is not a broodmare's._

Not that Islanzadi would ever accept such a sentiment. Oromis thus did not relate it. Instead he appealed to rationality. "Saphira is small enough to sit within Glaedr's rib cage." The golden dragon flexed his bulk for emphasis. "The size difference alone is ludicrous."

The queen of elves rolled her eyes. "I was not aware you lost more than your leg in the Fall, Master Glaedr. I remember dragons well enough to know such disparity in sizes between mates was avoided out of personal distaste, not necessity, and that mating between dragons with Riders is far less sentimental the the bond a wild pair shared. Galbatorix has but two male eggs and a mindless beast left to him. But a single brood could-"

 _NEVER!_

Glaedr's roar split the air like thunder. Every eye in Ellesmera must have turned to the Crags of Tel'aenir. It was a small mercy they had ordered their pupils leagues away to meditate in peace.

Islanzadi stumbled back, her gown singed from where sparks of dragon-fire had landed. Her mental shields, battered down by Glaedr when he had given his fury voice, hastily built themselves up.

For a moment she gaped up at him like he had just condemned the elves to death. Then she drew herself tall as the mask of queenly dignity slid back into place. "Master Glaedr, for so long my people looked to you as our ember, the one secret bit of light we hoarded against the darkness of the Fall. Now Saphira Brightscales has become the second. Two sparks is all it takes to light a fire that can rage against Galbatorix's evil. Please keep that in mind before you and your Rider snuff yourselves out."

Without so much as a curt nod or backward glance Islanzadi took her leave. Glaedr snorted at her retreating back.

 _Good riddance._ Then he lowered his head to rest against the ground so their eyes were level. _I live to pass on my knowledge because there is no one else left to teach it. I will not leave behind a brood of children to be reared from the egg as pawns in this war. Bad enough such a burden is forced upon Saphira._

Ignoring the sharp bite of pain in his limbs, Oromis braced a comforting hand against the dragon's side. _You and I certainly aren't going anywhere soon. Not until we can least secure one of those gods-damned eggs._

For a long time Glaedr was silent. Then he mused, _Neither Saphira or Islanzadi can give me further grief if I take an unbreakable oath about never siring eggs upon her._

His Rider winced. _I respect your right to make such a vow, old friend, but I beg you not to. We are already bound by so many shackles; our grief and our pain and so many regrets. Besides, you've put off amorous females before. What's one more?  
_

Golden eyes peered deep into his own. _If Islanzadi thinks me a mere ember, Saphira and Eragon already burn bright as stars. They do not deserve our fate._

 _No, old friend, they do not._

Yet Eragon's cursed wound prevented them from realizing any greater destiny. Elves did not put stock in gods, but the fickle and immutable fate was a force most recognized, whether they hailed it or cursed it with every waking breath. If one could pray to fate, Oromis prayed for Eragon and Saphira both to get the chance to blaze like no others before them.

Fate seemingly answered with Eragon's miraculous healing and transformation during the Blood-Oath Ceremony. It would not be for many months more that Oromis realized he had one very specific spirit named Iduneya to thank.

* * *

In his most fanciful moments Oromis had once dreamed of surviving until the final battle, his and Glaedr being the final sacrificed necessary to turn the tide of battle in their rebellion's favor. They could slide into oblivion without regrets, confident that the knowledge of their Order lived in through Eragon and the future of the dragon race in the claws of Saphira and the two eggs rescued from the King's clutches.

One such egg had been consumed by Galbatorix's hordes of undead, a spark snuffed out before ever given a chance to fully flare into existence. Shattered with their master's death or devoured by his armies, the entire trove of Eldunarya beneath Urubaen had suffered the same fate. So had every egg and heart of hearts secreted away on Vroengard. Though the failing of the spell upon their memories had seemingly confirmed their worst fears, Oromis and Glaedr had thoroughly searched the entire vault just to be sure. They had discovered nothing but dead fragments of eggshells and Eldunarya. Like Urubaen, Vroengard was still and lifeless as the tomb.

The other egg had hatched into foul-mouthed Thorn, who had happily eschewed the title of dragon for dragon knight. A dragon knight that embraced Murtagh as a brother of sorts rather than his Rider. A dragon knight as content upon two legs as four. A dragon knight that had eagerly embraced the possibility of a human lifespan if it meant not outliving his friends by centuries. Once self-proclaimed in his title, Queen Midna of Eluryh had acclaimed in truth as her second champion.

Saphira, the last female of their race, had also embraced the human form bestowed upon her by a Light Spirit so that she might fight at Eragon's side in the cursed realm of Twilight. Changed so much by their journey, neither she nor Eragon were separate races anymore, but in the same middle ground Thorn occupied. Their bond, not lessened in the slightest, was just no longer one of Rider and dragon.

With the last two Riders and dragons having willingly forsaken their bonds, the pact between their races had been upheld only by them, its last elders. With but the two of them bound to it, it had been a simple spell to unravel. If any future dragon eggs were ever discovered the ancient spells that once would have altered them to hatch for only Dragon Riders would have no effect. Glaedr was content to remain the last true Alagaesian dragon so that Saphira and Thorn could follow their futures elsewhere. Oromis had done the same.

Last of their kinds they may have been, neither the last Dragon Rider nor the last bonded dragon had any intention of dying soon. They had survived armies of undead, spirits dueling above their very heads, and even Kialandi's curse. A Forsworn's wrath was no match against Wisdom, for Queen Zelda of Hyrule had been blessed by a very Goddess. Once the Order, unwittingly isolated from the wider world by the border shared with Hyrule's powerful protections, had declared there be no lands of sentient peoples beyond Alagaesia. New ties to Hyrule opened the way to the countless countries beyond.

Ellesmera had welcomed envoys that ranged from mundane humans to Hylians of intriguing origin to living rocks. Oromis and Glaedr had once been beholden to protect all of Alagaesia. Now they served as its two most well-traveled ambassadors, for not even a Kull or elf could outpace a dragon.

Obligations had first drawn them to Hyrule and its races. Oromis knew he could spend many human lifetimes fully exploring its history and rich lore and magics, but Glaedr's burning curiosity drove them onward. Two of Hyrule's neighbors were most vocal in next hosting them.

Arcadia's lands lay east of Hyrule's southern Sea Province, hailed as a cultural center of the world for its extensive trading ties and influence over art and architecture for many thousands of miles around. Its magic users were rumored to be masters of the arcane arts. Queen Solene was said to have knowledge and magical power that rivaled that of her niece, Queen Zelda herself. Arcadian dragons were best described as massive serpents that breathed venom instead of flame and roosted in swamps instead of upon mountains. Some preyed upon towns from the cover of their lairs. Others watched over sacred temples and springs, offering ancient wisdom to the worthy souls that dared seek them out.

Northeast of Hyrule was the kingdom of Andar. Andar's history was just as ancient as Arcadia's, though written in blood and conquest more often than not. Arcadia was an ancient ally of Hyrule, so heavily intertwined with them their nobility were all virtually Hylian. Andar had warred many times with Hyrule for influence in the region, preferring the hard power of soldiers and steel to Arcadia's soft power of knowledge and culture. Long had the Dragon Riders tempered such ambitions in the humans beneath their protection. And yet Glaedr had still been drawn to its dragons.

Most Andarian dragons preferred roosting in the isolated mountains and granting the human villages a wide berth. The ones closest to civilization were the young fools that liked the easy food, be it from stealing sheep or demanding virgin girls as tribute. Their elders nested in the deeper wilderness and jealously guarded their hoards. Thrice they had been driven off by furious dragons that had only seen them as thieves of their treasure. Once Oromis had been forced to slay one maddened by a cursed ring in his possession. Such corrupted artifacts tainted the minds of most elder dragons, who valued power above material value in their treasures.

 _"Glittering male!"_ Smarag had roared to Glaedr in rough Andarian. _"Go away! Too damn old to trip over hatchlings!"_

Glaedr's golden hide and Smarag interest in his 'human pet with pretty hair' had granted them their first amiable audience. Their first hour of conversation had been spent on Smarag interrogating Glaedr on how he kept his scales so shiny and then over the fight in which he had gained such impressive scarring, including the loss of a limb. Oromis had silently rolled his eyes as the two dragons mostly talked over him. Glaedr, the daft old fool, had luxuriated in the praise of his golden hide and awesome collection of scars. Smarag then regaled him with how she had gained her every scar, be it from an envious human or envious dragon wishing to steal away her treasures.

Smarag rivaled Glaedr in size, perhaps even a head taller. Her scales were a drab green, rough and lusterless from age, but studded with a constellation of emeralds. Her horns and teeth were not yellowed from age, but gold dust. Her one eye left was bright green.

Oromis's lips twitched when Glaedr finally steered Smarag's boasting of her treasures into the oldest objects of her collection, the ones nearly three thousand years old. Old as the pact.

 _Nice direction, old friend,_ he thought to himself. Smarag's mind was hot and powerful as any elder dragon's, but roiled with a powerful undercurrent, the collective magical strength of the artifacts she hoarded. Oromis dared not intrude upon it, for Smarag had deigned only to open her mind to Glaedr because she thought him 'too damn old and stupid to learn how to talk the right way.' Among Andarian dragons sharing thoughts was an intimate bond shared only between close friends and family.

Smarag's eyes and spikes flashed a brilliant green. With a twitch of a paw the hoard slide aside, a lance landing at the tips of her expectant claws. Its tip shimmered with a faint blue light of its own. Oromis and Glaedr both blinked in bemusement as they gazed upon _Thokablom,_ one of the _Dauthdaertya_ crafted at the end of Dragon War. All but one of the twelve terrible weapons had been thought lost forever.

 _"This Frostflower, taken by me three hundred and seven years ago from Fafnir the Frozen through fang and fire, taken by Fafnir the Frozen from Grendel the Grayhearted five hundred and fifty-four years ago through..."_

Smarag had illustrious legacies for every one of her treasures, her rough tongue becoming especially articulate as if reciting ancient poetry. As seven dragons had killed each other for Frostflower in one year, the same year a human knight slew the eight dragon and stole the spear before a ninth dragon killed him for it, this one was especially long. Frostflower's ended with, _"...and brought to this land by Ellior the Ancient two thousand, three hundred, and one years ago, pried from the burned hands of an Interloper in the forsaken lands upon his slaying of her mate."_

Glaedr cocked his head. _Did your ancestors come from the forsaken lands too?_

 _"Sea to sea, all land once dragon land,"_ Smarag said grimly. _"First Interlopers fuck up magic in one part, then they come back and start killing us. Only the fucking stupid ones stay to make peace. Not clan to us anymore. Then they all die."_ Her sharp green eye appraised him. _"Except you, glittering male."_

 _Aye._ Glaedr bowed his head. _I am the last... our distant cousins found their happiness amongst the humans._

Smarag shrugged. _"_ _Fafnir the Frozen human 'til ring make him dragon. Melys turn human to marry human. Happens sometimes."_ Her tail twitched thoughtfully. _"If you still alive you not so stupid. Golden hatchlings could be treasure. But hatchlings might not be golden. May need to try many times. Or maybe I just keep you and human pet."_

After much bargaining, Oromis escaped without fighting Smarag for Naegling. All it cost him was his long silver hair, now sheared short. Glaedr had to haggle scale by scale. Many had thankfully been old and loose enough to be easily removed. A few tender areas as the new scales beneath fully hardened and matured was an easy price to pay.

 **I had nebulous plans of this one-shot planned for a while. Then the muse took me by the hands and possessed me. I should be in bed, dammit.**

 **Why throw the world's last female dragon into the fight when you have a male and can breed an army in no time flat? Especially when her Rider went and got himself crippled and nearly killed in his first real battle? It's a plot-hole that should have at least been addressed as a possibility, dammit.**

 **Bittersweet endings are par for the Zelda course. Despite clearly saying Firnen's egg, Galbatorix's Eldunarya, _and_ everything from the Rock of Kuthian got devoured by the dragons in the epilogue, I still got a few reviews asking what happened to them. Hopefully this clears up any lingering confusion about their fate :( Like the Knights of Hyrule a century ago, the Order of Dragon Riders is dead and not coming back. The last two dragons linked to the pact were raised by humans, bonded with humans, and are at ease as two legs as on four. They and their former Riders look into a new future. While the Dragon Riders are dead, dragons are _not._ Neither are dragon knights ;)**

 **Despite scouring the Zelda Wiki, there are few foreign countries that fit my purposes mentioned. Arcadia is a semicanon country from the old _Zelda_ cartoon, home of the douchey Prince Facade. Holodrum, Labrynna, and Calatia also exist somewhere in this world and are briefly mentioned in TRR. Gamelon and Koridai are _places that must not be named._ Andar is one of my creation. In the last few days I may have flushed out a lot about this world and what I want to do it than I have in the last four years. Let's just say that nebulous sequel I talked about in the epilogue of TRR is a hell of a lot closer to reality ;)**

 **Smarag's name is derived for a foreign world for 'emerald.' Only later did I see how strong the name looks to 'Smaug' XD. Fafnir is the name of a Norse dwarf who got cursed into a dragon and later slain by Siegfried. Melys is a homage to the myth of Melusine.**


	2. Clockwork

**I'm drowning in a period of heavy work and getting six hours of sleep a night, and this thing gushes out of me. Behold a missing scene from _Chapter 28: A Moment of Respite._**

Growing up at the outskirts of civilization, Eragon had found as a child simply riding into Carvahall on Uncle Garrow's bumpy old wagon had been a delight. A farmer's life had not been an an easy one. Even a young boy could help tend to the chickens or weed the garden. There simply hadn't been much time to go into the village proper and wrestle with the boys his age.

Once he had dreamed of simply visiting a city like Teirm. His responsibilities as a new Rider and the urge to hunt down his uncle's murderers had overshadowed what time in Teirm had not been spent pouring over scrolls and tomes with Brom. Dras-Leona had been the site of Brom's murder, a father figure who had sacrificed himself to save the foolish boy who could not protect himself, let alone his loved ones.

Eragon had gazed up in wonder at the Star Sapphire of Tronjheim, City of Eternal Twilight. He had witnessed elves sing the trees of Ellesmera into shapes that suited their needs. Castle Town was a marvel all its own.

There were towns and cities elsewhere in Hyrule, but Castle Town was its beating heart. Human vendors hawked their wares and passed him on the street, but they were far outnumbered by Hylians. After his transformation in the Blood-Oath Ceremony Eragon had believed himself forever set apart from others, too graceful to be human and yet too coarse to be elven. Among dwarves and elves he would have been the obvious outsider even if he had not been their Dragon Rider, the symbol of their hope. Despite the odd glances his clothing attracted, he was but another face in the crowd.

So was Saphira, in the Hylian form bestowed upon her by Faron's blessing. She walked freely alongside him, marveling at street musicians or simply children passing by holding their mother's hands. They were daily signs of life, those not so different from Carvahall. With a pang Eragon realized Saphira had only witnessed these scenes from afar. The gawking crowds her true form attracted disrupted the mundane.

Like a child, Saphira dragged him to every colorful stand and sight. Eragon wistfully remembered acting the same way whenever the Traders and their exotic wares had passed through the village. Uncle Garrow's stern glares had quickly made him outgrow his wishes to impulsively waste any of their hard-earned crowns on 'useless trinkets.' Now he gently had to remind Saphira even she couldn't stomach food from _every_ stall or have the time to learn _every_ shiny new weapon a human body could wield.

Eragon thought he was being perfectly reasonable about balancing their purpose with taking in a little more of the land they were risking so much to save. Midna did not agree.

 _"Oh, for Goddesses' sake, you idiots aren't tourists!"_

Eragon blinked a little at the word. Tourism. What a fascinating concept. Elves and Riders had centuries to ponder the world and its wonders before the Fall had brutally ended their expeditions. Hyruleans, or at least a portion of them, had the time and rupees to waste on idle leisure. Lake Hylia's absurd attractions existed for a reason. _Someone_ visited them enough to keep the ventures profitable.

Saphira rolled her eyes. "We're still buying my Blue Tunic, are we not? We're simply taking the interesting route.'

 _"And how many rupees did you just blow on that shady beggar and his 'spirit of love?'"_

"It's not like we have a small fortune left over," Eragon pointed out. Their adventures had uncovered a surprising amount of rupees squirreled away in seemingly every corner of the kingdom. "Shadd says Merle's honest in his prices. Blatantly so."

Unlike the infamous owner of Chudley's Fine Goods and Fancy Trinkets Emporium. After hearing the rumors of outrageous prices for everyday items from disgusted people in the square, Eragon and Saphira had only wanted to peek at the shop's wares. At the door they had instead met the upturned nose of Chudley himself.

Chudley had politely requested Eragon go find some tidier footwear before visiting again. His gaze had lingered on Saphira's blade and breeches before smoothly suggesting she return after locating more elegant attire. His disdain had became slightly less veiled when he noticed the runes that traced themselves on Saphira's skin, barely visible in the daylight.

No longer shrouded in the Twilight, Eragon still had a bit of dragon in him. He did not scowl at the last remark. He snarled.

Chudley quailed back, blubbering apologies about how of course the fine lady and gentleman could enter his fine emporium and expect luxurious goods at lavish discounts.

Eragon had worked against his wordless fury for a proper response. Saphira had instead thanked Chudley being the first person she felt inclined to punch rather than set on fire. The man's flabbergasted expression and Midna's cackle were vengeance enough.

The Curiosity Ship, less grandiose in name, was nonetheless apt. Midna whistled at the display window's contents.

Saphira's eyes narrowed at such a reaction. "Yes, very pretty necklaces. Why are they so special to you?"

 _"I know a good talisman when I see one. The power in that thing is potent. Nowhere near enough to withstand Zant, of course... but I'm grudgingly impressed to see protections of this skill made available to the public in this realm."_ Midna made a small noise of consideration. _"Guess Zelda isn't such a one-off when it comes to magical prowess."_

Eragon frowned at the price. From Shad's rough estimates on what a Blue Tunic should cost they did not have enough such a talisman too at this time. "Would something like that be worth buying?"

From his shadow eyes blinked incredulously up at him. _"Your dragon was personally blessed by a Light Spirit. You're the Champion of Farore. You honestly think any mere mortal magic can improve upon **that**?"_

His left hand clenched at the reminder. Instead of responding he strode forward into the shop. A bell tinkled as he opened the door and stepped inside. His greeting to the shopkeeper withered and died on his lips. Eragon's gaze instead riveted to what hung behind the counter.

That sound, so soft beneath the sounds of Castle Town spilling in from the open door... He knew that sound like he knew...

 _ **(not enough time there's never enough time why does it always come down to TI-)**_

Saphira nudged him as she squeezed her way in behind him, hand on his shoulder. The air grew hot as she called up the power to yank him out of the way and transform. One good breath of flame could set that cluttered little shop alight.

 _What's wrong?_

Eragon blinked, startled. In his mindless panic he had grasped the hilt of his blade. He tried to recall why he had wanted it. He couldn't remember.

 _...Nothing, Saphira._ His fingers slacked as he returned the hand to his side. _I'm fine._

The shopkeeper was a man with a head of curly brown hair and a well-trimmed beard. Earnest blue eyes flicked disbelievingly between them and the object above his head. "Of all the things in my shop that set off your 'hack it to death instinct'... it was the _clock_? It's not even magical!"

Cannons and gunpowder may have been unknown to Alagaesia, but clocks were not. All races had practical needs of recording time's passage. Dwarves preferred finely-wrought hourglasses or lanterns that burned down oil in measured increments. Elven clocks relied on means natural and magical, creating timepieces more for form than function. Humans used whatever was available, from rough sundials to elaborate devices that counted down water droplets to the second.

Eragon fought to keep his fists from clenching. Midna had sneered enough that his homeland was a backwater.

"The sound of it," he conceded. "We have traveled in dangerous places as of late, places where hearing a small sound may mean the difference between dodging a blow or getting killed by it. The... ticking reminded me of something else."

"That outfit suggests either lethal wishful thinking or outright lunacy, but the steel in your stance says otherwise." Then the shopkeeper scrutinized Saphira. "Is that a mask you're wearing? Our store isn't a masquerade."

Eragon tensed, sensing the shopkeeper referred to far more than Saphira's runes. Yet she only shrugged in response. "A face no more real than my other one."

"Eh. Fair enough." His gaze flicked back to Eragon. "I'm serious about the clock, though. Not even one of the magical ones you need to waste magic on winding up. Just good ol' human engineering. Our shop runs on precise business hours. Wouldn't need one if that clock tower ever gets constructed, but no one can agree on how the damn thing should be built."

Once more Eragon shook off a shiver of dread and pressed onward. "Are you Merle? Shad Gramme recommended your shop to us."

The shopkeeper nodded brightly. "That I am. I'm the twin with the Goddess given fortune to still have his hair. What Merrdin procures, I peddle. What Sky People relic is Shad hunting down this time?"

The Curiosity Shop was brimming with wares that had even Midna whispering questions into his ears, but Eragon hurried them in purchasing the Blue Tunic and in moving onward. Despite the conversation they had stricken up with Merle, nothing had drowned out the ticking of that gods damned clock.

 **The _Zelda_ franchise is glorious in how anachronistic it can be from game to game. MM's Termina appeared several centuries ahead of the medieval-ish OoT Hyrule, but several elements of TP give off Steam Punk vibes. Certainly clocks like those common in Termina should be a thing by TP's period. Alagaesia may be a world where the repeating crossbow (first invented in 300 BC in the Western world) may be devil's magic, but numerous means of somewhat accurately measuring time should be well established in a medieval setting. **

**Why, yes, you aren't imagining those MM references ;) If TP and TRR by extension were a love letter to OoT, it's only natural the sequel would be a love letter to something else ;)**


	3. In Interesting Times

**I am sitting on so many half-finished chapters for things. I am filling doc after doc with world building info for stories that may never been written. And that resulted in this.  
**

 **Set after the epilogue but before _Embers_.**

 **In Interesting Times: On the Mysteries of Hyrulean Chronology  
**

 **by Clement Donatien  
**

 _Forward: I am aware my decision to insinuate the Hylians of Hyrule are in some way their own race is controversial in certain circles of academia. While a considerable portion of our population, particularly among the nobility, have a high degree of Hylian ancestry and may be referred to themselves as Hylian, there remains among us human descent and a common culture unique solely to Arcadia. The Hylians of Hyrule are referred to as such for brevity's sake, as the controversy over further terminology has no place in this chapter._

There are those that claim the true age of the earth is known only to its creator, be she Alkis or the Golden Goddesses of Hyrule or, as some other faiths would claim, some other force entirely. Certainly the first peoples created in that long ago dawn age had little need to keep track of their days of existence whilst their world was still rising all around them. Perhaps it was not until the higher divinities all but retreated from this realm did our ancestors begin counting the days of their parting.

With certainty the Kingdom of Arcadia can date back some six hundred and ninety-six years, the day Queen Anaise Valerre established her dynasty upon overthrowing the despot Kronn and ending a long era of strife and social upheaval. Beyond that the precise history of our people becomes a matter of guesswork upon missing and conflicting historical records.

Our sister kingdom, Hyrule, oft boasts of being the oldest land in existence, where the Golden Goddesses first began to shape the world. It would therefore stand to reason their dating system is the oldest, and thus the most extensive in its records.

However, there is no such unified Hyrulean system. The Goron elders keep an oral history that cares little for precision. So long as the broad (and interesting) strokes are kept alive through storytelling, it does not matter when this patriarch retired or when this hero killed that dragon. The Zora's lunar calendar and insistence upon referring to their male rulers only as King Zora in official documents make a maddening mess no Arcadian scholar has yet untangled. Historical records attest to the Gerudo keeping a solar calendar, but the precise dating system was lost in the massacre. The highly secretive Sheikah tribe claim no history beyond that maintained by their Royal Family.

Although not officially designated as such, the Hylian system might as well be the _Hyrulean_ system, for it is the Hylian Royal Family that the Gerudo patriarch and young Zora king swear allegiance to. As Hylians are said to be the favored race of the Golden Goddesses, surely their system must most closely emulate Lanayru's sacred order.

Rather than count down from a precise date, such as Queen Anaise's founding of our modern dynasty, Hylians instead record their history in eras. These increments are imprecise and not universally agreed upon, even among Hylian scholars. For example, the Gilded Era was most commonly referred to as the Era of Peace by those who lived within it. This Era of Peace is not to be confused with the numerous others Eras of Peace that appear in various sources at various periods in time (very few of which correlate to one another.)

Even regnal numbering is not an infallible source. As Zora records attest to numerous King Zoras, so too does the Royal Family boast a staggering amount of Zeldas. A common name among Hylian nobility, it would be impossible to determine which Zeldas ruled in her own right were it not for all the spouses of monarchs being titled as 'consort.' There is also the problem of a new age beginning a new system. King Daphnes Hyrule, Fourth of His Age, became King Daphnes Hyrule, First of His Age, upon the end of the last Hyrulean Civil War.

Hyrule's latest chronological controversy relates to the matter of its last era. Virtually all agree the age began with the signing of the peace accord that settled the Hyrulean Civil War and ended upon the day King Daphnes (Nohansen) Hyrule's daughter was officially crowned as Queen Zelda Hyrule, First of Her Age. Queen Zelda has declared her father's era, now ended, to have been the Era of Isolation.

Aside from ruling figures, Hyrulean eras are often defined by their Chosen Heroes, for such sacred champions only arise during great periods of discord. Referring to these heroes allow a native Hyrulean raised on such lore to immediately identify time frame in question. However, this system is also wanting in precision. Tradition dictates such heroes are most commonly named Link and hail from modest backgrounds. While some remain in active service of the Royal Family their entire lives, and more than one has even married into it, others surface to save the realm and slip back into the fog of history. Some titles, such as Hero of Hyrule and Hero of Men, are contentious as they are applied to multiple figures and some may never have existed. The legend of the Hero of the Time, for example, is widely popular in both Hyrule and Arcadia but has no grounding in reality.

While the fictitious Hero of Time dominates his mythological era, not all heroes are so definitive. Sir Link Veles, Hero of Termina, is the one acknowledged champion of the Era of Isolation. Old clan genealogies confirm he was the sole survivor of those clans that composed the Knights of Hyrule. As a youth Link Verden is credited with saving the Goron people from starvation and rescuing Princess Ruto of the Zora. His testimony helped indicate King Ganondorf of the Gerudo tribe in both incidents and a plot to usurp the Royal Family.

With such an auspicious beginning one would have expected Sir Link to go down in history to have heroically served the Royal Family for decades, dying as one of the famed names of his time. Instead Sir Link sinks back into obscurity until summoned to court by Princess Zelda to be formally knighted for the deeds of his youth. His title stems from his alleged deeds in Termina - an enigmatic land we shall discuss some other time. Sir Link's knighthood appears to be efforts to both tempt the man out of retirement and spark the revitalization of the Knights of Hyrule, but such a movement never came to pass. Sir Link lived the rest of his short life out as a simple rancher until slain by renegade Gerudo in vengeance for his part in the condemnation of their king, Ganondorf Dragmire.

There is more written on the political turmoil (for all four races wished to claim the honor of giving the Hero of Termina his final rites and resting place) surrounding Sir Link's burial than there is upon his life. Such is the fate of most Chosen Heroes - to ignominiously slip into the sands of history to be inevitably forgotten. While we historians lament living in such uninteresting times, but as an Arcadian I cannot help but feel grateful. The champions most quickly forgotten are those whose turmoil never makes it past Hyrule. Only the greatest calamities reach Arcadia, and only the greatest heroes have such staying power.

The end of the Era of Isolation came through King Zant of the Twilight Realm invading Hyrule and plunging what some call the most sacred of lands into cursed darkness. Long have scholars and great magicians speculated on the existence of alternate worlds, but this the first confirmed instance of one making contact with our own. While many, myself included, are still unraveling the full account of events at the time of this writing, Zant colluded with a tyrant who had long ruled over a previously unknown land to the west. This region is called Aligaisia, though I do not yet know if this refers to the entire country or a region that incorporates several independent states.

Most unusually, this age's Chosen Hero did not arise in Hyrule, but in the west to cast down both Zant and his native tyrant, a man called Galbitorys. Sir Eragon Veles is hailed by Queen Zelda, First of Her Age, as a legitimate heir of Sir Link Veles. (Those among you who advocate the innate superiority of Hylian blood can make of it what you will.) For his role in saving two realms, Sir Eragon is hailed as Hero of Twilight.

Not only has Queen Zelda, First of Her Age, named a champion, but she has declared this new age for Hyrule to be the Era of Twilight. Rather than retreat to their own realm, the denizens of the Twilight Realm seek new ties with this world, with those of Hyrule and Aligaisia and beyond. Already Queen Solene has approved plans to officially contact these new peoples, but I can confirm no course of engagement as of yet.

"May you live in interesting times." I know those that purport those words are a blessing. I know my fair share in academia who throw them as a curse. Though I also look forward to an era of new worlds guarded by a proven hero, my experience as a history tells me the droll pages are those where we Arcadians lived long, happy lives blissfully unaffected by Hyrulean turmoil.

I know not how the Era of Twilight will unfold for Arcadia, if we will soar to prosperous new heights or face troubles not seen since the Founding, but I have no doubt the times ahead will be interesting indeed.

 _Clement Donatien, University of Athene, 696 AF._

 ** _Zelda_ _'s_ lack of a clear, definitive timeline works to both my delight and frustration. Alagaesia has three thousand years or so that definitively need to be accounted for. I tried creating solid timelines for a bit for the ancient history before throwing my hands up in frustration. Considering how often their civilization gets pushed to the brink of collapse and has to rebuild itself (and how many people share the same freaking names), I figured Hyrulean scholars argue themselves in circles with theories that have no clear cut answers too :D  
**

 **Aracadia is semi-canon. It appeared in the old Zelda cartoon. I've repurposed it here. It was mentioned in _Embers._ Arcadia and Clement shall be making appearances again. All misspellings are intentional on Clement's end ;) Could you spell Alagaesia or Galbatorix on a first try through third- and fourth-hand knowledge?**


	4. Their Miracle

**Era: Set some time before Eragon's birth.**

Once Gavin had dreamed of raising a brood of children, boys that chased chickens around the yard and girls dirt-stained from mucking around in their mother's garden. As the years had gone by, and every faint hope had ended in blood and bitterness, Gavin swallowed his pride and prayed but for a single child. One healthy, laughing babe to quiet Annah's weeping, to pass his legacy onto, and to soothe the aches in their hearts.

For a time the gods had humored him. Once more Annah swelled with child. Her last babe was the first to quicken, to kick and punch against the hands on his mother's belly. Gavin knew their son would come into the world squalling up a storm.

Their boy was born without a breath in him. He was buried with a name, Garrow, at the edge of their farm. At that plot their ancestors had been laid to rest for generations. One day Gavin and Annah would lie with them, and then there would be no more of their family. His hope for the future, his faith in the gods - all had died with Garrow.

Then had come the flash of green and the miracle left in its wake.

The name on the letter had been too smudged to decipher. Gavin christened the boy Cadoc. It was a strong, sensible name. Not one out of place in Carvahall. The letter itself had been tossed to the flames within minutes of the boy's arrival. It did not take them long to forget its contents. Annah couldn't read in the first place and wanted nothing more than to believe Cadoc was their own gods sent miracle, not a babe that could be torn away at any time should those of his homeland come calling. Gavin had no patience for the impossible. He had a farm to manage and a boy to raise.

Cadoc was over a year old and tottering around on unsteady legs before his existence was formally revealed to Carvahall. Neither Gavin nor Annah insinuate the boy was anything but their own flesh and blood. They do not wish their son's arrival connected to the mysterious green light and bring the Forsworn swooping down upon their heads. Healthy as Cadoc had been upon his arrival, any babe could fall ill and die in infancy. The first birthday was among a villager's most important milestones for good reason.

The farm was at the edge of the Spine, far enough from the village that Gavin could go months between visits if he wished. He preferred it that way. Annah had tried becoming more involved in Carvahall's affairs, but the pitying looks sent her way chaffed her pride. The girls she had grown up with had already dismissed her as a childless crone, deigning to let her look after the elders and the widows because she had no babes of her own to fill the void. Cadoc's arrival allowed her to turn away from the whispers before she had triumphantly returned with a healthy son toddling at her side.

Most never doubted Cadoc was theirs by blood. Not to their faces, at least. Women older than Annah had borne babes before, rare as they might have been. Children born after a miscarriage or stillbirth were often kept secreted away from the world until at least their first birthday. Annah was pudgy enough to have conceivably concealed a pregnancy. She and Gavin were isolated enough for the ruse to be plausible.

It would have helped if Cadoc at least had the dark hair and eyes so common in Carvahall, like Annah and Gavin both. His bright blond hair and brilliant blue eyes were at least not so rare. His preference for his left hand was something Gavin beat out of him early. Best the villagers think him a bastard or a foundling than _something_ worse. There were quite a few that took the old myths too seriously for Gavin's liking. Aside from the boy's knack with horses, Cadoc was blissfully mundane otherwise.

Not that it helped Gavin's paranoia any. Before Cadoc's arrival he had hated wolf howls like every farmer hated his livelihood threatened. Now it seemed every howl was calling for Cadoc. At times the very night wind seemed to sing with Cadoc's birth name. Once Annah had woken up in tears and had stumbled into the night. She had fallen on her hands and knees and begged the shade of Calon's mother to not steal him away from her.

Gavin had spurned the gods with Garrow's death but some force had blessed him with his son. Now he prayed that same power would never see fit to steal him away.

Gavin and Annah did not live to see the birth of their first grandchild, a boy named in honor of the stillborn child Cadoc believed to be his brother, but they lived to a ripe old age regardless. They lived to see their boy grow into a man and inherit the farm. They died and took the secret of their son's origins with them.

Their prayers were were honored. The power that had sent Cadoc into their lives never came to claim their son. It did not even come to claim their grandchildren, though they fell afoul of fate all the same.

But it came for all three of their great-grandchildren, and it came with a vengeance.

 **I wanted to write this from Calon's point of view but Gavin and Annah took it over instead.**


	5. A Gift Horse

**This takes place within _A Song of Storms._ It's one of the scenes I really wanted to write when I devised this series... and dedicated to our favorite potty mouth ;)**

Dragons instinctively feared storms and so avoided darkening clouds and sudden drops in air pressure whenever. Relentless winds could down even an elder. There was no defense against a thunderbolt.

Thorn, however, rode a storm that had blown across the kingdom and taken his vows with it. So long as he braced himself above the whipping winds, and avoided the screaming strain on his wings, he trusted it to carry him beyond even Galbatorix's clutches.

The demon at the border was not so easily avoided. Squinting ahead he already glimpsed darkness growing on the horizon. If anything the raw power of the storm drew it in like a fly to a stinking corpse. The storm was finite. As its warm winds died down the cold gale from the west grew sharper, tearing at his wings as it slowed his breakneck pace.

Thorn had hatched into slavery. He had grown up bound in vows that did not even allow him the liberty to die. Of course he would die only after getting his first taste of freedom. Even as he swooped to avoid the hateful yellow eyes and withered talons he knew there was no escape. Neither he nor his divine wind were strong enough to challenge the demon outright. As his death descended Thorn closed his eyes and wished only the power to avoid it.

Bright red light seared his closed eyelids. For a moment Thorn was enveloped in warmth that he hadn't known since he was small enough to be held by Murtagh. Then he plummeted to earth as his wings failed him entirely.

Thorn had intended to roar his defiance to the demon and die with dignity. Instead a scream tore past his lips as he plunged to a far more humiliating demise.

Thorn had learned quite early in his training dragons could scream. Absently he noted how high-pitch he suddenly sounded. As if the wind had robbed him of his very roar as well as his wings.

His impact with the earth shook every bone in his body. It rattled his scales like they were hollow. His last ditch attempt to swoop beneath the demon's talons had dropped him to a low enough altitude where his crash had not been instantly fatal but it had crippled him regardless. His legs felt both too short and too long all at once. He still couldn't feel his wings or even his fucking tail.

Thorn's gaze fixated on the cover of the trees rather than on his own broken body. He wanted to live, gods dammit, and scuttled to safety.

Above him the demon shrieked. Its gales shook the trees with the force of its fury. Like a fucking rabbit Thorn huddled against the ground, limp and shivering, and hoped it was too stupid the bright red dragon it had downed was right beneath it.

But the creature advanced no further. With a final blast of arctic wind sent in his direction it slunk back into east and took its frozen gloom with it. For the first time in ages Thorn squinted up at a bright blue sky. Beneath the perpetual pallor the demon's shadow cast over Galbatorix's lands he had almost forgotten what one had looked like. By some gods forsaken miracle he had made it to the border after all.

Only with the danger momentarily passed did Thorn at last assess the damage to himself. His neck seemed a lot shorter than it used to be. Then he saw the reason why.

 _"Good fucking gods!"_

Thorn jerked his head wildly about for the source of the hysterical shout and realized the voice was his own. His own gods damned _human_ voice.

 _Give me my fucking body back!_

Red flames engulfed him again. He huffed as his bulk suddenly expanded in all directions. His tail thumped against something hard and unyielding. Tree trunks groaned. His wings painfully complained they had no room to unfurl. Shaking the branches free from his horns, Thorn both confirmed he was indeed a dragon and that it was a very stupid idea for dragons to seek shelter in forests of tightly packed together trees.

But he hadn't been a moment ago, had he? Thorn blinked as he considered his unexpected source of salvation. He was still very much indeed bonded to a human, Murtagh. Their bond hadn't been wiped clean like their vows. Perhaps whatever power had liberated them had temporarily tweaked Thorn's very sense of self to sneak him beneath the demon's nose. After all, the King's pet had been ordered to watch for dragons and not... whatever the hell he'd been when he'd fallen out of the sky and scurried his way to freedom.

Yet, though his true form was restored, Thorn could not help but sense he was still not as he was. The force that had made him man and then dragon again lurked just beneath his skin, awaiting only his command to flare up again.

Galbatorix had violently discouraged curiosity as he had vulgarity. Thorn decided Galbatorix could go fuck himself on both accounts.

Reasonably confident he could turn back of his own free will the dragon concentrated on gangly limbs and the sound of his own voice. He wished those things his own.

His magic obliged. Properly prepared this time, Thorn stood upright on his own two damned human feet and inspected every inch of this impossible body.

The odd rattling sound of his impact had not been scales at all, but armor red as his true form. Before the battle on the Burning Plains Galbatorix had attempted to fit him into armor but in the end decided it had made him too slow and cumbersome. Thorn scarcely felt the weight of this new suit. He tentatively curled one hand into a fist and knocked against his chest-plate. It certainly seemed like it could take a blow.

He glanced around for a pond's still surface but found none. Rolling his eyes he instead rose his hands to feel his new facial features. Deft human fingers instinctively found and undid leather straps. Thorn blinked in bemusement as he pulled off and gazed upon a snarling helm that resembled his own draconic face.

"At least it's fucking intimidating."

Thorn paused to consider his human voice. Raspy, but young, without even a hint of a dragon's rumble to it. He sounded younger than Murtagh. It could have been worse. He had hatched less than a year ago. Human courtiers were always so shocked to discover his age, as if he and Murtagh had been hidden away in a cave for decades or something until their master had deigned to present them to his court. His human form could have been that of an actual fucking infant.

Tucking the helm beneath an arm Thorn ran his hands over his true face. Nothing felt out of the ordinary. He didn't have a snout or horns or scales. His hair was even long enough to glimpse some of the strands; dark, like Murtagh's, but with reddish undertones.

With a jolt Thorn looked down at the helm and wondered if it was a part of his true form. If he were to change back without putting it on would it shift with him? Would his head somehow be without scales? He swiftly returned the helm to its proper place and wished for a weapon instead. He couldn't just go around bashing things with his bare hands like a fucking idiot.

A weapon obediently manifested in his right hand. He was pleased to discover it a spear with a more reasonable range than a sword could ever hope to have. Thorn hadn't come to risk his life unnecessarily. Its shaft was the same fiery red as his hide, its head and edges trimmed in gold. He gave it an experimental twirl and reflexively sank into a fighter's crouch. His first smirk split his features when he discovered this body knew damn well how to wield a weapon.

Thorn did not question the circumstances behind his freedom or this strange second form that already knew how to fend for itself. He had learned a long time ago to not look a gift horse in the mouth, but to shut up and eat it.

Shouldering his spear, the man who was not a man strode purposefully off into the woods. He needed to find a clearing big enough to stretch his wings without burning the whole damn forest down.

 **Thorn's fate was nebulous up until Volga of _Hyrule Warriors_ hit me like a freight train. From there Thorn, foul-mouthed dragon knight, took on a life of his own. I really wanted to write a scene like this for TRR, but chose to keep the true bounds of Thorn's new abilities hidden until the reveal at the end of _The Nightmare Resurrected._ I've spent so much time writing scenes where Eragon goes 'how do you dragon' it was a really great experience to write the reverse instead XD**


	6. What the Storm Brings

**I have a few other ideas planned for this series that will flesh out TRR a bit more and set things up for the sequel but I'm open to suggestions for future one shots. Are there any background moments or characters you want to know more about? Anything about the past to TRR - such as more on the Fall, Link and Malon's life before it all went to hell, ect? Let me know in a review.  
**

 **Era: Set some time around _Chapter 27: The Wounds Not Even Time Can Heal._**

A witch, a werecat, and a cursed girl following a king on holy pilgrimage. It sounded like the start of some terrible fairy tale. Elva had the misfortune of living it.

Orrin and Nasuada, leader of their peoples, rode at the front to be showered by adoration and cries for succor. Roran Stronghammer's unfortunate blood relation to the Shadeslayer demanded he be near them to enjoy the scrutiny.

Angela happily rode with her little ragtag band of misfits at the back of the train. Her mount was a piebald mare with feathery fur around her legs that flowed her legs. Angela affectionately called her Kulu. With the witch's curly hair freely streaming behind her she and the horse looked spectacle enough without the werecat keeping pace by their side. The horses had long grown used to Solembum's presence, though some still nervously rolled their eyes and whinnied when he slunk too close. Elva's scruffy little pony was too old and crotchety to acknowledge the werecat's antics beyond a grouchy snort.

Elva had demanded an actual horse when Angela had insisted on dragging her along on this fool's errand. She had been too damned short for all of them. She had steadfastly refused Angela's jovial offer of riding astride Kulu with her. Instead she had swallowed her pride and turned to the ponies. All had bucked and tried to bolt their restraints at the sight of her. Perhaps they smelled the Shadeslayer's tainted spell upon her. Perhaps her disposition was charm enough. Only one scruffy little nag had snorted and stood undaunted. Elva called him Mule.

The road to Reavstone was thick with pilgrims that sought the spirit to cure their every ill in such troubling times. Their overwhelming desperation and unabated hopes made her head swim. More than once she pulled Mule to a halt to vomit over his side. Better the nausea of sheer masses than the utter agony of a battlefield.

"Ah." Angela inhaled deeply as Reavstone came into sight. "Smell that fresh sea air."

Elva wrinkled her nose at the stink of rotting fish. Of course Solembum's ears perked up in interest.

Reavstone's great stone gates, their archway carved in the shape of some leaping fish, opened to spill forth a crowd that eagerly welcomed their king and his party. Angela halted Kulu before her hooves crossed over that same threshold. Elva glowered scathingly up at her.

"Changing your mind so close to the end?" she sneered.

"Of course not," the witch said smoothly. "I just remembered I have to see a man from out of town about a frog. Solembum would be honored to show you the rest of the way."

The werecat, now a boy not much bigger than herself, sent her a feral grin.

"I feel so at ease," she deadpanned.

Angela only grinned and gave her a cheery wave before she melodramatically rose Kulu into a rear and gallivanted off in the opposite direction. Mule plodded his way forward. Elva let herself be dragged along for the ride.

Rather than follow the royal procession Solembum sedately wove through the crowds clogging even the side roads. His nimble fingers lifted gold coins and trinkets for his own pockets. Occasionally he came slinking back to give her apples or a piece of bread, delivered with the same aplomb cats left dead mice on doorsteps. Too nauseated by the sheer number of people battering against her mental defenses, Elva fed all her morsels to Mule or else dumped them into a beggar's bowl.

"Should we not be at the gates with the rest of the rabble begging for deliverance?"

"Of course not," the werecat replied. "We're not rabble. They'll send for us."

With a laughing cry a seagull swooped down to snatch the bread from her hands. Elva's skinny arms batted the bird away but it escaped with its prize dangling from its beak. Solembum hissed after it.

"Nasty little messengers," he spat.

Elva rolled her eyes. "You were too slow to kill it."

"They're disgusting shits and the taste takes forever to wash out." Solembum's red eyes glittered warily up at the small flock caterwauling overhead. "Never beneath Sur's gaze. Especially not in her most sacred of cities. She likes them too damn much and I have no wish to be swept out to sea in some sudden squall."

Solembum did not guide her to the grand golden gates King Orrin had spoken so fondly of. Instead he led Mule to a servant's entrance.

"This is where we part. I'm not getting myself drenched by Sur just because she thinks it would be funny to see me wet."

Elva smirked. "I'll get myself thrown out soon enough."

The werecat said nothing before he transformed and darted off, his black fur vanishing into the shadows. The servants did not question her presence. An olive-skinned boy not much older than her apparent age took Mule off to a stable to be fed and rubbed down. A man with a stooped back and swinging beard led her onward.

Elva crossed the threshold and into a different world. The raucous noise of the city outside was drowned behind the soft rustle of the wind in the trees and the burbling stream. Gone was the stink of dead fish. The breeze smelled of salt and open air. She bit back a sob as the woes and agonies that assailed her evaporated like bad dreams. Her only pains were her own.

"You are well within your rights to cry here, child. To hold back your emotions so violently are to let them fester within you."

Violet eyes narrowed as she appraised a wrinkled woman that somehow looked older than the elves and eternally youthful. "I am no child. Orrin's aunt, I take? Emunah?"

The shrine-keeper shrugged. "Something like that. And you are a child still, no matter how hard your path has been to walk."

Elva sneered. The conversation was taking a familiar turn. "Are you about to suggest the gods only give us what we can handle and not a trouble more? Spare me your platitudes."

Emunah snorted. "Fate's favorites are those it tends to fuck over the most, incidental or no. Your curse could have befallen any unfortunate babe presented to a boy who had let his newfound fame and responsibilities go to his head. Most would have perished from the strain or be reduced to gibbering wrecks. You had the strength of spirit to bear the burden. There are those that consider Lady Death to be the most merciful of deities, but those that yearn for her sweet release might not find what comes after so fulfilling."

The girl's gaze settled on the deceptively still waters of the spring. She sensed something watched her back.

"I haven't been cleansed of my curse. It's still smothering me even if the voices have been drowned out."

"The power that drives your curse would have tainted you even if the spell had been properly worded. Their very words twist the bonds of creation. Sur does not have the strength to liberate you. In her shrine she can shield you from the symptoms but not cure of you of the disease."

Elva considered the shrine's tranquil surroundings. They were vastly preferable to the dark quarters in Farthen Dur and cramped tents she had been kept confined to out of both fear for her well-being and fear of her, but a gilded cell was a cell nonetheless.

She stamped her foot in childish defiance, for she had railed against her lot all her short life. "I'll not grow old and die here as a prisoner to my own fear. I _shall_ live as I wish. Not even the Shadeslayer shall hold power me."

The priestess's dark eyes appraised her. "Suppose your curse could be lifted and all your suffering unraveled. Your lost years and stolen innocence returned at the cost of your memories of cruelties little girls should never have to know. Would you accept such healing willingly?"

Elva snorted. Her prior guardian had been a daft old woman who had gotten her cursed by the lackwit Rider in the first place. Her current self-appointed keepers were a witch of dubious sanity and a fickle werecat that followed his whims first and foremost. As if she would sacrifice any shred of her independence in a world where spirits now warred like the end of days.

"That wouldn't be healing, but killing me altogether. My memories are _mine,_ and they define me as I say so."

Emunah flashed her a pleased smile. "Wisdom from the mouths of babes."

Angela and Solembum never returned for her. In time the royal procession left Reavstone behind as their war against the Empire settled into a new stalemate.

Elva did not leave their seek them and further suffering out. Most hours she spent in the shrine. Some came for healing or to simply fall on their knees and pray Sur spare their loved ones a watchful eye. Those seeking protective charms and blessed weapons came in droves. Emunah presided over mass purifications for whole legions of soldiers. The shrine-keeper received them all, turning away neither arrogant lords nor the poor and destitute.

Occasionally Elva deigned to assist the earnest acolytes in organizing the petitioners or handing out scraps of paper for written prayers or blessings. Sometimes she staved off boredom by riding Mule through Reavstone's streets and browsing the busy markets. The seagull charm pressed against her bare skin, newly blessed by Emunah whenever she left the sanctuary of the shrine, warded off the worst of her agony.

Elva knew firsthand there existed much more power in the world beyond that of the ancient language. The silver mark upon her brow was testament to a dragon's blessing. Angela hid true strength behind mirth and madness. She discovered such magic in faith and prayer, for Sur drew as much power from her people as she did from the wind and waves and land itself.

Elva was riding Mule back from the marketplace when the storm surged through Reavstone. From the way her spirit shuddered she knew the magic upon it to be Eragon's. It had not been made for her but still its winds were sweet with freedom. It swept her curse and all its compulsions away with it.

Soaked to the bone, and her wet gown clinging to her skin, Elva shivered. It was not from the cold. Closing her eyes, she inhaled her first free breath in conscious memory...

And exhaled it with a scowl to the sky.

"Don't expect me to forgive you for it," she muttered. "That wasn't even meant for me in the first place."

Not that she still wouldn't take shameless advantage of it. Elva pulled her pony to a halt as she contemplated the endless avenues now open to her. Mule stomped a grumpy hoof at the water seeping into his thick mane.

Elva continued home. She had all the time in the world to reconsider what the shrine and the stubborn little shrine-keeper meant to her.

Assuming the world didn't first. She hoped Eragon had finally gotten around to pulling his head out of his ass before it did.

 **With most of the meat of TRR's story taking place in Hyrule Elva's subplot got pushed to the sidelines, and I just plain forgot about her during the weeks and months (and years) I sometimes went between updates. This series is helping me fill in the pieces for her. Eragon's storm wasn't made for Elva, but she sure as hell doesn't let it stop her from moving on with her damned life. Time will tell if Eragon ever gets proper closure for her, or if Elva even needs it from him.**

 **Kulu's name was almost 'Chinkle' - the English rendering of Tingle's original Japanese name, Chinkuru. If one of your series has a fat little man who believes he's the reincarnation of a fairy in one of the games you're crossing over, then pretty much everything goes. Especially when the crazy witch from the _other_ series canonically dropping references to fandoms the author happens to like. Kulu's name is instead derived from 'Kooloo-Limpah,' Tingle's "magic" words... a romanization of the Japanese term for the 'cuckoo sign.' It spoke to me XD **


	7. Scars

**A brief scene for _Chapter 39: The Shattered Sages._**

The miracle of a plumbing system that did not require active magic to fill a tub with heated water was lost on Murtagh. He had spent a day fighting ghosts and cursed undead in the tainted temple that had become their tomb and execution grounds. He wished to only not smell of death and decay when he collapsed upon an actual bed.

Sweat and grime left his tunic a stinking second skin. Murtagh shuddered when he finally peeled it free. Then he stripped the rest of his filthy clothes and sank into the steaming water. His back shivered at the heat.

Murtagh could dimly remember sitting on his mother's lap, admiring a pretty orb of light she had summoned, when Morzan had burst in on them. Only years later did Murtagh realize he had been drunkenly seeking sexual release. Long a veteran to the frequent fights that erupted between his parents, he had darted to the safety of the corner... and had near earned a blade in the back for his 'cowardice.'

Only Selena's immediate action had saved his life but she was no healer. The painful, disfiguring scar remained long after she ran off to save her second son and returned dying and delusional.

In his one and only act of genuine remorse Morzan had attempted to undo the damage wrought. His spell had failed and he had furiously never tried again. He had blamed Zar'roc, as if the blade had a will of its own to ensure misery eternal.

Galbatorix had been amused by the scar up until it had interfered with his training. Pushed too far in his swordplay or physical exertion, even when he was hunched over in Thorn's saddle too long, Murtagh was inevitably hindered by the protesting pain of his back. There was only so much movement the scar tissue could take before tearing at the sensitive flesh around it.

Once Galbatorix had attempted to heal the scar he now saw as weakness. When he failed he instead scoured all sensation from the area.

Murtagh had once been consoled by the knowledge his baby brother was even more crippled by his cursed scar than even he. From before birth Eragon had never been blessed. Their mother had risked everything to run off and ensure he was born and raised amongst a loving family. He had never known Morzan's fickle cruelty or Galbatorix's mercurial madness. It seemed only fair that Eragon had to live with his share of the suffering.

Then upon the Burning Plains Eragon spitefully revealed a miracle had relieved him of even that. For that Murtagh had been sorely tempted to leave him a parting gift when he had claimed Zar'roc as his rightful inheritance.

Yet Murtagh's back did not ache from phantom pains. Every nerve ending, numbed and dead for months, suddenly screamed the water was hot.

His fingers gouged into the edges of the wooden tub. Stubbornly refusing to examine his back, he struggled to recall every instance since stumbling into this gods damned kingdom. Had his sensation been returned during his unwitting shift from human Dragon Rider into apparent Hylian? Had he felt rivulets of rain running down his back when Eragon had played his Song of Storms and washed away his very name?

Murtagh couldn't remember. He'd had far too little time to sit on his ass and think since arriving in Hyrule. Certainly not about the scar he preferred not to acknowledge whenever possible.

Gritting his teeth, Murtagh finally craned his neck to do just that.

A thin white line surrounded by slightly pinkened skin slashed a familiar line across his flesh. His scar wasn't effaced, but finally healed and faded.

Morzan was well over a decade dead and gone. Nothing remained of him but blurred, hazy memories and a misery Murtagh had mastered as his own.

For a moment he marveled at realizing he no longer feared his forsaken sire. Then Murtagh put his mind to the demands of the present; scrubbing the stench of fucking death and decay from his skin.

 **Murtagh got screwed over so hard in the books where Eragon always got off scott free. It got to the point where I was rooting for Eragon's actual father to be Morzan so he had to forever live with a monster for a father and never getting proper closure like Brom was able to give him through his convenient hidden final message.**

 **On that note, my most significant scar was dealt by a _parakeet._ A parakeet who got really tired of being woken up at six in the morning every morning for her medication and decided to let me know by going Velociraptor on my hand.**


	8. First Impressions

**Because apparently I just can't write enough about Thorn and Murtagh for this series XD**

 **Era: Before the story proper and then in _Chapter 55: The First Strike._**

"You just had to hatch for me, didn't you? Me, of all fucking people."

Red eyes blinked guilelessly up at him as their owner cocked his head like a lost puppy. It wasn't even an hour old. All it could understand was its... Rider being upset.

Murtagh glared down at the _gedwey ignasia_ that branded him a slave for eternity unless someone managed to cut him down in battle. Already the oaths burdened him and the hatchling both. Galbatorix could not have left a Rider capable of slitting his own throat or snapping the little dragon's neck like a twig unattended. Not even the Black King could resurrect the dead.

He tried to hate the dragon for damning them both. If he had failed in hatching an egg Galbatorix would have eventually grown bored and put him out of his misery. The dragon could have slumbered in its shell until the end of time. Better to never truly live at all than live and die by Galbatorix's whim. Yet, every time Murtagh looked upon the source of his misery, his budding hatred withered and died.

Not even holding his mental shields at their highest kept him from feeling this dumb, ignorant little newborn was now tethered to his sense of self. Murtagh just couldn't hate an infant innocent of everything except whatever gods damned instinct had made it hatch and select him as its Rider.

 _No,_ Murtagh realized with a chill. _Not an it. A he._

The dragon was male. Murtagh knew Galbatorix desired nothing more than to raise the little hatchling into the perfect servant, eager to follow every order and rape Saphira until he'd sired an army of eggs upon her.

Murtagh just barely remembered his father's dragon, a nameless and forsaken thing deprived of her very name by the spiteful dying curse of her own kind. She had degenerated into a mindless beast driven only by instinct and devotion to her Rider. Morzan had kept her chained up like a rabid dog whenever he had not had use of her. Their bond had made him little better than a beast himself.

Murtagh refused to let his dragon become that. He'd figure out a way to kill them both before it ever came to pass.

"Gods, why couldn't you have at least been a different color," Murtagh muttered as he finally bent down and took the hatchling into his arms. Their first touch had already bound them together for eternity. The dragon could hurt him no more. "As if I need even more comparisons drawn between me and my father."

Morzan's beast had been the color of freshly spilled blood. Her color was mirrored in Zar'roc. Murtagh's dragon may have also been red, but a more vibrant shade. Even in the dim torchlight of their cell the hatchling's scales shone with a fiery undertone.

"Galbatorix probably wants me to give you a name that will strike fear into the hearts of our enemies," he said snidely. "Like Fyrn, perhaps, or Raudhrdauth." A smirk pulled his lips. "Or maybe I should just christen you Little Bastard and be done with it."

At last Murtagh opened his mind for the hatchling to consider the implications of his names. He squealed his displeasure and snapped at his Rider's fingers for emphasis. The man swore as needle-sharp teeth broke skin.

"Ow! Little bastard! You're just going to grow into an even bigger thorn in my side, aren't you?" He blinked at sudden serendipity. "Thorn."

Not a proper name, like Saphira or Shruikan. Not even in the ancient language. The right word was 'doorn,' which lacked the grandeur of a longer name like Istalri or Arucane. The little bastard purred his approval all the same. Murtagh's suggestions of more appropriate names received displeased nips.

Galbatorix had frowned slightly at the revelation and Murtagh had feared more for the little dragon than himself, but he had already latched onto Thorn as his name and would not willingly accept another. Their master had thankfully let the matter slide. Perhaps Thorn lacked the terrible majesty a name in the ancient language could convey but still suited his purposes, albeit to a lesser degree.

And so the thorn in Murtagh's side remained.

* * *

"Ow! Gods fucking damn it!"

Murtagh had helped Thorn form his first cohesive thoughts. He had flung the little dragon from balconies and low rooftops when he had first wanted to fly but could not conquer his fear of falling alone. He done his best to help Thorn fight and breathe fire, for instinct and ancestral memories were poor teachers and Shruikan no mentor at all. Never had he ever thought to teach a fucking dragon how to shave.

Murtagh refrained from rolling his eyes as Thorn growled a healing spell to erase his seventh cut that morning. Without his armor the dragon knight resembled the petulant teenager he was still very much indeed. Sharing a tent with a young man that snored like a dragon was one thing. Being woken up by the same young man's vulgar disbelief he had sprouted stubble overnight was very much another.

"At least this time you got the last of it." Murtagh smirked. "It only cost you a pint of blood."

"Fuck you," Thorn spat. "Why does this body want to grow even _more_ hair? It's got more than enough as it is!"

Murtagh considered it a blessing he had first met Eragon as a self-sufficient, if somewhat thickheaded, adolescent. He hadn't needed how to teach his yuounger brother how to string a bow or shave or talk to a girl without coming off as a complete idiot. Then fate had practically granted him a second little sibling that had little idea about the finer workings of the human body.

Murtagh blinked as he considered the short time Thorn had possessed this second form. The smirk dropped from his face. "Was that your first time sleeping like this?"

The dragon knight bared his teeth in discomfort. "Aye. I can't sleep in a full suit of armor. Up until recently I was terrified of taking off more than the helm. I thought I would be leaving a part of myself behind if I turned back without it on. He grimaced at his reflection. "Good fucking gods. Why do I like so much like you? Saphira doesn't look like Eragon. Not unless he grew _really_ feminine since I lost saw him."

"I don't know," Murtagh said. It was half the truth. Eragon and Saphira's bond was stronger than ever, but not what it had been. The looks that passed between them had an undercurrent he preferred not to linger on. "Why did you hatch for me in the first place?"

Thorn thought about it. Then he shrugged. "Ran out of yolk and was about to starve? Really wanted to stretch my legs? Don't remember, don't care. I was a stupid fucking baby and now I'm not. We're out, we're free, and I somehow have a choice between wings and opposable thumbs just as the world might be about to end. That's all that matters."

Murtagh nodded. Having Eragon as a brother was both a thorn in his side and a bond he wouldn't trade for anything. What was one more reckless, impulsive little sibling on top of it? It wasn't like Thorn was his dragon anymore than he was Thorn's Rider.

Only Thorn's sudden wave of astonishment made Murtagh realize he had made such a musing openly. The dragon knight's own barriers immediately reared up but no hatred or betrayal crossed his face. His expression was one of deep thought as he turned to don his armor.

"Come on," he grunted. "Can't keep Roran waiting."

Murtagh nodded and readied their belongings. Their silence was companionable.

 **Eragon and Saphira's bond has almost always been mutual, no matter the point in their lives. Murtagh and Thorn's beginning was not so smooth. The first scene marks Thorn's reluctant acceptance of his role of Dragon Rider. The second marks the turning point that though the pact between them is effectively null and void, a bond beyond magic and mutual desperation persists.**


	9. Son of Shadow

**Era: Sometime before the story proper and then sometime within the epilogue.**

Rayna swallowed thickly, unsure she wanted to sob or vomit. "You're certain?"

Kamia's gaze was firm when she removed her hands, but tempered by pity. "Certain as the sunrise."

There were so many precautions for her predicament, herbs and charms and physical barriers. Not that any should have been needed in the first place. Fraternization while on duty could get a Sheikah ordered immediately back home without hope of ever receiving an assignment again.

Goddesses help her, Rayna hadn't cared. She had been young and naive and so very deep into what she had mistaken as love. Now her reputation was in ruins. So was her father's. Her grandmother's. Perhaps her entire people's if rumors ever leaked out.

On the outside Tahno Venath was solemn as the mountainside. Rayna knew him better than that. Her father's muscles were taut and his red eyes blazed murder. She was the favored firstborn no longer.

"If you wish, this is something easily remedied," Kamia said gently.

"No!" Rayna's hands flew to her stomach. Biting back against the sudden wave of ferocity, she returned her father's stare without flinching. "Whatever my disgrace, I am Sheikah still. I will not break two of our most solemn sacraments."

Tahno's resolve crumbled in horror. "My daughter, pregnancy should not be a prison sentence. No matter foolish your mistakes, I will never stop loving you. You owe me and our people nothing." He snarled. "You owe _him_ nothing!"

"You're right," she spat. "It's not your child. It's not _his_. It's _my_ baby and _I want him!"_

Calloused hands grasped her. For a moment Rayna imagined them snapping her neck. Then her father enveloped her like she was a little girl again.  
"I am by your side no matter what you choose," he murmured. "There is time to change your mind."

Kamia spared her a knowing glance before she left them their privacy.

* * *

Sheik Venath was named so months before his birth. Male or female, it was common amongst their people, as Sheikah a name there was. It had been so long before the damned tale of the Hero of Time had made every outsider associate it with a Hylian princess in disguise. Sheik was her blood, born into her people, and grew up knowing only the shadows.

Sheik was not the only child his age without a father. So few clans had survived the massacre and not everyone could marry a close cousin. Quite a few women slipped out in the dead of night under glamor and birthed babies months after their return. These children were welcomed by the tribe, their lineages entered in their clan records without paternal names given, for the father's identity did not matter in their cases. All conceived with the right intent and carried through the proper rituals, every child was born Sheikah.

Sheik was only three when he discovered he was an exception to the rule. Not all Sheikah had white hair. Some had shades of pale blond or silver. Only he had hair golden as wheat in high summer. Amongst his moon-pale cousins he blazed bright as the sun.

Sheik was hopeless at glamors. Once he had tried to bleach his hair pale to match the rest of his clan. Rona had caught him the act. She and their cousins had taunted him ruthlessly for it.

Then Hawa Kaso had jeered Sheik was the princess in disguise. Rok and Hila had pinned him down while Rona had held a knife to his groin and sweetly asked if he would like to be a princess too.

Rayna was the daughter of Tahno Venath and Kaya Torr, the blood of Shira and Impaz. None whispered behind her back about her half-breed son. She instead raised eyebrows for her distinct lack of other children.

Sheik had three aunts and two uncles. He had twenty-one first cousins alone, not counting more distant relations like Rona. Their tribe only had so many members. It seemed an unspoken law for a Sheikah couple to have at least three children, two to replace themselves and one to expand the ranks.

Rayna snorted at such logic and turned every suitor down. "You have plenty of cousins to make up my deficit, Sheik," she told him the only time he pressed for answers. "And you're the only child I need."

 _You just don't want me to feel jealous of any little brothers and sisters you actually planned for,_ Sheik thought adamantly. _Children that are Sheikah, and only Sheikah._

He never dared express such thoughts aloud.

Rayna had no more children. Sheik knew he was not an only child.

* * *

Officially Rayna was only supposed to come forward at Zelda's formal coronation to renew their tribe's allegiance to the Royal Family and offer up a contingent of loyal guards for service.

Misae Halan, their most venerable shaman, and her honor guard first had to reveal themselves to warm Hyrule up to the prospect of surviving Sheikah. Zelda insisted on openly honoring the sacrifices of her fallen protectors before sending their bodies home for honorable burial and the proper funeral rights to absolve their fitful spirits.

Sheik and his comrades followed as their secret shadows. At Hyrule Castle they would remain until the princess's formal coronation and for many months afterward.

In their journey to the castle's makeshift throne room they passed through a hall of portraits. Sheik involuntarily stopped in front the one of Queen Linon in her later years. She rested in her throne with a small smile gracing her tired features. Her consort, his warrior's frame long turned to fat, stood to her right with his hand resting possessively on her shoulder. At their left stood their sole son and heir.

Prince Daphnes was no older than seventeen or eighteen, his handsome and regal features schooled into a neutral expression that failed to conceal his boredom. He was clean-shaven, golden hair neatly trimmed beneath his princely crown. His gray eyes were heavy-lidded.

Sheik scowled back and pulled his scarf higher. He had inherited his mother's stature and lithe frame, her red eyes and tanned skin. His facial features might have been sharper, covered by cowl and golden stubble, but he recognized them all the same.

"You really should have just shaved your head if it bothers you so much," Rona whispered to him. "There's just too much to hide beneath the cowl."

Sheik glared daggers at his cousin before both quickly snapped back into position beneath the stares of their elders. He had already made this assignment by the skin of his teeth. Goddesses forbid he fucked it up now.

The true throne room had been utterly demolished by the Demon King and the Hero of Twilight over their battle for the kingdom's future. Repairs were months from completion. Their princess instead received them in the ballroom.

Princess Zelda, queen now in all but name, wore a somber gown of black and dark blue. Her only ornamentation was a thin silver circlet. Following that first night of celebration she had vowed for her court to go into mourning until the last of the dead had been delivered back to their families and granted their funeral rites.

Sheik had seen enough of the portraits to recognize his princess in their faces. Queen Sabine Valerre was beautiful like a china doll, dainty and fragile. In her daughter her features were strengthened and refined by the regal sharpness of King Daphnes. Like many nobles Sheik had observed from a distance, she had the look of one who went outside much, the same pale skin and dull hair. Only recently had that changed. There were fresh spots of color on Princess Zelda's face, new streaks of blonde in her hair golden as Sheik's own.

Princess Zelda's gaze swept over them all but settled on him. Her eyes were a blue so deep they were almost violet. They lingered on the golden hair escaping his cowl. Sweat beaded on his neck.

For a moment Princess Zelda's queenly composure faltered. Like sunlight through the clouds, a small smile flitted across her features meant for him and him alone.

Misae was the first to slip into a bow, her escort smoothly following behind her. Life returned to normal.

It was an open secret among his people that Sheik was a royal bastard. His half-sister had the grace to not let their father's sordid affairs taint a formal audience. He expected no acknowledgment beyond that.

Only hours later, when Zelda finally had the chance to drag him somewhere and envelop him in a crushing hug, did he realize how very wrong he'd been.

 **Sheik and Rayna are both characters from TRR's epilogue. All other Sheikah characters here derive their names from those of the BotW monks. Rayna is derived from Grayna, the German rendition of Impaz's name. Sheik's name source is very obvious XD In this canon Sheik is a very popular name for both genders (although one that trends a little masculine) and a reasonable name for Zelda to have used as an alias in OoT.**


	10. Inheritance

**A missing scene from the epilogue.**

Before Hyrule Eragon had never expected again to wield a blade that could rival Zar'roc. Rhunon had vowed to never forge a weapon ever again and the few surviving pieces of her work beyond his reach in Du Weldenvarden. Even the finest steel of the Durgrimst Ingeitum had paled in comparison. He had grudgingly settled for lesser blades artificially to bear the strength of his blows.

And then he had drawn the Master Sword forth from its pedestal. Wielding the Blade of Evil's Bane had not been wielding a weapon, but an extension of himself. It shone untainted by time and corruption. It had felled power incarnate. Abandoning the blade to its resting place had felt almost like dying.

Eragon had felt naked after first losing Zar'roc, humiliated by its theft and Murtagh's revelations. Missing the Master Sword was like missing a limb. Its weight against his back, the gentle clamor of its sheath against his shield, had been as natural as the rustle of his wings.

Since his last journey to the Sacred Grove he had carried neither sword nor shield. The Hylian Shield was nothing without its counterpart. No mundane weapon could compare to one forged by inhuman forces. With a dragon's fire coursing through his veins he had no true need for anything beyond his natural strengths.

When his queen had requested a private audience in her study Eragon could not have denied her. Zelda stood before her desk, holding an unmistakable oject with both hands. The shape of a sword was obvious beneath its green silk wrap. He suppressed a groan at the sight.

"Your highness, you have already granted me all I ever wanted with the return of my second form," he said earnestly. "The knighthood was an unexpected honor. I am truly in need of no more gifts."

Zelda smiled softly at him. "However unorthodox a knight without a sword may be, Sir Eragon, you are under no obligation to wield this blade in my name or anyone else's. It is not a gift, not truly, but an inheritance returned to its rightful heir."

Any humor in the room vanished. Eragon knew all about inheritances. Murtagh had spuriously claimed Zar'roc as the right of Morzan's firstborn son when neither of them had known they shared only their mother. The burden of their maternal line was forever branded upon his skin as the Triforce of Courage.

"What makes you think I want it?" he rasped.

"When they both looked to be little more than children, your great-grandfather returned from his travels in Termina to lay this sword at her feet. Years later, when his new queen laid this same blade upon his shoulders and knighted him as Sir Link Veles, he remained kneeling at her feet rather than claim it from her grasp." Zelda brushed a finger over green silk. "As far I as I know Sir Link only ever picked up a sword again to defend his farm and family. You willed Lon Lon Ranch to your cousin. I thought you might more carefully consider the rest of his legacy."

Silently the Queen of Hyrule unwrapped silken bindings. The scabbard was dark emerald, artfully etched with golden vines and thorns. Its hilt was green and stylized to look like a vine.

Curiously Eragon lifted the sword into his hands. The sheath felt of fine leather. Its grip was cool and supple as living vine. Magic prickled at his skin.

When his hands had clasped the hilt of the Master Sword he had felt it pierce deep into every corner of his soul until it had deemed him a worthy bearer. This blade had a far lighter touch, warm and gentle like sunlight compared to the unfettered blaze of the Blade of Evil's Bane. It judged him kind and yielded to his grip.

Eragon's eyebrows, only moderately arched, rose into his hairline as he unsheathed the blade. Its point and crossguard were deep violet, brightening to fiery red at its core. Set within the blade's fuller was an emerald inlay adorned with black roses and thorny vines.

"Who made this?" he asked bluntly.

"The scabbard was commissioned by my namesake to create a vessel worthy of this sword. The records show Sir Link claimed the blade itself was granted to him by Termina's Great Fairy of Kindness when he fully restored her power." At his confused stare, she explained, "Fairies are the physical embodiment of magic. The greatest ones are known to grant magical abilities and favors to those who aid them."

Eragon gave the blade an experimental swing. It was not a seamless extension of his will. He sensed its protections were nothing against the great evil the Master Sword had shielded him from if not cut through entirely. Against the sacred blade, it was no contest, but that blade had never truly been his to begin with. This beautiful blade fell short of perfection, but the gap between the two was not nearly so daunting.

"Does it have a name?"

"None beyond Great Fairy's Sword," Zelda said neutrally. "Or Great Fairy Sword. Its fate is yours to decide."

Eragon frowned down at the blessed blade. The only sword he truly wanted to claim was Undbitr, Brom's original sword, but it was a century lost. As the student of Oromis perhaps he also had some right to Naegling upon his master's passing, but neither Rider nor dragon planned on dying anytime soon.

"Perhaps one will come to me in time," he said easily.

The weight of the Great Fairy Sword upon his back was not quite right, but the addition of his shield lessened the niggling bit of unbalance.

 **The Master Sword has no true replacement because it's the fucking Master Sword, but the Great Fairy's Sword helped one hero prevent the end of the world and has some power of its own. Out of all the possible options, it's the one that sucks less :p And there's definitely a scene hinted here I want to feature in a later one-shot ;)**


	11. Legacy

**Era: Sometime after the epilogue.**

In Carvahall, a family's past went no further back than those names carried in living memory. What use was there knowing all the ancestors whose graves had long rotted away and their bones turned to soil?

Growing up, Eragon had known himself primarily as Garrow's nephew and Roran's cousin. His mother, Selena, had been a name and memories too painful to be spoken of. Her mother, Lara, had died long before his birth and her father, Cadoc, when he was but a babe. Eragon remembered the names of Cadoc's parents, Gavin and Annah, only because they had held the farm. Gavin's father might have been named Garrow, but Eragon had been unsure.

There had been no father, let alone paternal family, to speak of. Eragon remembered some boys calling him a bastard before Roran and his friends had put an end to the taunting.

Now his fingers traced a stylized circular bird, its wingtips touching above its head. Its curved beak showed it to be a bird of prey. Once it had been embossed with gold. Only dull, well-worn leather remained. The Hylian script across the cover was archaic, almost too ancient to read.

"Verden Clan Registry," he muttered.

"The clans of the Knights of Hyrule guarded their lineages so carefully many survived where they themselves did not," Zelda explained softly. "As their sworn lords the Royal Family have preserved their records for a century. It is high time this one be returned to its rightful keepers."

"Link was knighted as a Veles," Eragon protested. "So were Murtagh and I."

"Turn to the last page."

Eragon rifled through countless names and deeds, generations of ancestors that had lived and died in the service of Hyrule. Some pages earlier in the chronological order were newer, signs that the registry was renovated and expanded over centuries of use. His eye went to the three final names.

 _Sir Arn Verden. Son of Brennus and Hanna Verden. Born in the third year of King Rickard's reign. Knighted in the twenty-second for helping to thwart an assassination attempt upon Prince Rhys. Wed in the first year of King Rhys's reign to Sir Medilia Ivallo. Slain in the third year of King Daphnes during the storming of Hyrule Castle._

 _Sir Medilia Verden. Daughter of Arnulf and Ylva Ivallo. Born in the first year of King Rickard's reign. Knighted in the twentieth upon slaying Prince Riagan's killer. Wed in the first year of King Rhys's reign to Sir Arn Verden. Fatally wounded in the third year of King Daphnes in seeing his only heir, Princess Zelda, and her own young son to safety._

 _Link Verden, Hero of Termina. Son of Arn and Medilia Verden. Adopted by parties unknown. Born in the second year of King Daphne's reign. Missing and presumed dead in the third year, until his miraculous reappearance in the twelfth year to confirm charges of treason, murder, and dark magic against the Gerudo King. Proclaimed Hero of Termina in the fourteenth year by Princess Zelda. Knighted as Sir Link Veles in the nineteenth year of King Daphnes, creating a new clan._

"When the knightly clans intermarried, it was tradition for the greater lineage to be passed on. The Ivallo line may have descended from an ancient hero from the Era of Unrest, but the cumulative deeds of the Verden's greatest members outstripped them all." Zelda smiled thinly as she presented another book to him. "The line of a Hero born of the Verden clan overshadows them both."

Eragon arched a brow at the intricate crest. He ignored its many frills for the focal point, a forest-green shield emblazoned with a golden spiral supported by two rearing animals. The right was a roan mare. The left was a golden wolf.

"There's no way in the seven hells my great-grandfather designed this."

"My great-grandmother did so," Zelda admitted. "She did so because Sir Link Veles had neglected his rank and titles in life. In death, there were those who wished to claim themselves his rightful heirs, and use his deeds to heighten their own glory."

Eragon's hands clenched around the book. He knew damn well those that had disregarded Link in life had squabbled over his body and the glory of who could take possession of Hyrule's last hero. Link and Malon had been laid to rest in a wild wood none could claim to avoid any such posturing.

"Calon was his only son," he bit out. "Those rights were his alone."

"The Knights of Hyrule and its nobility were not entirely separate castes," Zelda explained. "Many nobles descend from knights themselves, those granted dominions over marches and frontiers that eventually became wealthy estates in later periods. Even up until a century ago nobles still married into the knightly clans, if only to enhance their pedigrees with legendary names and hero's blood. With the main lines all but extinguished in the civil war, and Link's only heir an infant vanished from Hyrule, there were certain families that believed they had every right to claim control of his legacy."

Eragon frowned down at the family registries. With the Knights of Hyrule long dead their contents amounted to no more than faded names and empty titles. Any tangible benefits gained from inheritance, the land and bloodstock for a grand stable of horses, were through the will of Talon Lon-Lon. These lineages were but boasts that could magnify a bloodline's renown.

They were proof his family history encompassed far more than a few humble farmers and a paternal family long lost to time.

Eragon made his decision.

* * *

 _Sir Link Veles, Hero of Termina. Son of Arn Verden and Medilia Ivallo. Adopted by parties unknown. Born in the second year of King Daphnes, Last of His Age. At the age of ten he slayed King Dodongo was named Brother of Gorons, saved Princess Ruto of the Zora and their patron deity, Lord Jabu-Jabu, and helped confirm charges of treason, murder, and dark magic against the Gerudo King, Ganondorf Dragmire. Proclaimed Hero of Termina in his thirteenth year for his role in saving a distant kingdom. Formally knighted at the age of seventeen. Wed in his eighteenth year to Malon Lon-Lon. Gave his life at the age of twenty-one in defense of his family._

 _Malon Veles. Daughter of Talon Lon-Lon and Marena. Born in the second year of King Daphnes, Last of His Age. Wed in her eighteenth year to Sir Link Veles. Gave her life at the age of twenty-one in defense of her family._

 _Calon Veles. Son of Link and Malon Veles. Born in the twenty-third year of King Daphnes, Last of His Age. Adopted by Gavin Garrowsson and Annah Rheasdaughter as Cadoc Gavinsson. Wed in his thirty-sixth year to Lara Aldasdaughter. Peacefully passed in his seventy-third year._

 _Lara Veles. Daughter of Darrin and Alda. Born under Galbatorix. Wed in her twenty-third year to Calon Veles. Dead at the age of fifty-five from a winter fever._

 _Garrow Veles. Son of Calon and Lara Veles. Born under Galbatorix. Wed to Marian Thorrasdaughter in his nineteenth year. Murdered in his forty-sixth year at the hands of the Ra'zac. Avenged by his son, his nephew, and Sir Saphira._

 _Marian Veles. Daughter of Balder and Thorra. Born under Galbatorix. Wed to Garrow Veles in her seventeenth year. Died at the age of thirty-four._

 _Roran Veles, Stormhammer. Son of Garrow and Marian Veles. Born under Galbatorix. Helped lead the village of Carvahall to freedom in his eighteenth year and rescue Katrina Ismirasdaughter from Helgrind. Wed to her that same year. Granted Storm Surge by Sur, Spirit of Surda, and charged with defending the realm of Alagaesia during the final days of the Black King. Master of Lon-Lon Ranch._

 _Katrina Veles. Daughter of Sloan and Ismira. Born under Galbatorix. Wed in her eighteenth year to Roran Veles. Mistress of Lon-Lon Ranch._

 _Mari Veles. Daughter of Roran and Katrina Veles. Born in the first year of Queen Zelda, First of Her Age._

 _Selena Veles. Daughter of Calon and Lara Veles. Born under Galbatorix. Her spy work helped ensure the downfall of Morzan, last of the Black King's Forsworn. Perished in her twenty-sixth year._

 _Sir Murtagh Veles, Knight of Eluryh. Son of Selena Veles. Born under Galbatorix. Knighted in his twentieth year by Queen Midna of Eluryh to serve as her champion. Slayed Galbatorix, the Black King, alongside the dragon knight, Sir Thorn Kaen, that same year._

 _Sir Eragon Veles, Hero of Twilight. Son of Selena Veles and Brom Holcombsson. Born under Galbatorix. In his sixteenth year he defended the Light Realm and the Twilight Realm from the actions of Zant the Usurper and Ganondorf Dragmire with the aid of Sir Saphira Bright, Queen Midna of Eluryh, Sir Murtagh Veles, and countless others. Knighted by Queen Zelda, First of Her Age, in the first year of her reign._

* * *

Roran scowled in concentration as he carefully picked over every last letter of their family chronicle. Eragon watched him anxiously. His cousin was still learning his way around Hylian but had agreed it best for their lineage to be written down in such. By choosing to settle his own young family in Hyrule to manage Lon-Lon Ranch Roran had ensured Mari and any future children would grow up thinking themselves as Hyrulean.

Twelve family members, some no more than a single line. It had taken weeks of effort, first plunging deep into the memories of Roran and Carvahall's elders for what they recollected. Many more weeks had been spent of collaboration of outright argument between their family's four adult members as they had argued over what to include and efface for the future generations.

Even the ordering of relatives had been a small-scale crisis that had threatened the entire project. They had eventually settled on a spell that automatically sorted members by dynastic priority. As Roran technically descended from Garrow's senior branch, he and his descendants would be sorted before Selena's, automatically updating with every new legitimate birth.

"Well?" Eragon prompted.

"Why the seven hells am I the final judge?" Roran groused. "Murtagh is older and you're a blasted hero. Doesn't that give you priority or some such nonsense?"

Eragon glanced at his niece, hard at work teething a wooden chew in Katrina's lap. "And you're the only one of us currently bothering with a next generation. You should decide what's best to hand down to your daughter."

"I still think there's too damn much of me in here."

"Don't belittle your deeds," Katrina gently chided him. "Mari deserves to know exactly what her father did to help save the world from falling apart before she could even be born."

Roran scratched his beard doubtfully but knew better than to breach the subject again. "Is Murtagh satisfied with his parts?"

Eragon had left the thorny issue of their mother's legacy to his elder brother. He hadn't known Selena like his brother had. If Murtagh deemed it best for Morzan's blood and Selena's sins as a Black Hand to fade into past than Eragon sided with him on it. His decision to never mention he had been a Dragon Rider was a position Eragon had also followed. Their relationships with Thorn and Saphira had evolved in two very different paths.

"I'm still sure Midna and Thorn both pushed him into keeping himself on there," he admitted ruefully. Just like everyone of his closest companions had prevented him from hacking his entry down any further.

"I'm still not adverse to adding more than the mention of Brom," Roran said carefully. "Considering what he was to you and apparently to your mother... Well, I took a good look at the Verden history. A lot of children in there sure as hell weren't born in traditional wedlock."

Eragon's mouth twisted. He knew what Murtagh thought about those implications, especially when his elder brother had chosen to erase all mention of a father. Brom had been a father _figure,_ worthy of a mention but no more warranting a unique entry than Oromis.

His thoughts wandered to how much else had been obscured from their family history. Sloan's treachery and Selena's years as Black Hand were unmentioned. So too was Aunt Marian's slow and agonizing death of a miscarriage with what would have been Eragon's little cousin.

Eragon fought for a grand response to articulate himself. He settled for a shrug. "What's written down isn't entirely truthful, but I can live with all of it."

With a resolute nod Roran snapped the book shut and granted it a place of honor in the same chest reserved for the Verden clan's dusty tome.

The second copy he granted Eragon. From Lon-Lon Ranch Hyrule Castle was but a short flight away. The Royal Family, as official keepers of all noble families in the kingdom, would ensure their family would not be lost to history a second time.

 **And this is probably the fullest look you'll ever get at the family tree I keep for this series. For sanity's sake I go use the very long and dubious dwarven calendar as it's the closest either series has to a full year count for life and death dates on that tree.**

 **The simplistic, stylized emblems used to mark the ancient clans of the Knights of Hyrule are inspired by Japanese _mon,_ while the grandiose crests used by the modern Hylian nobility comes from those stations of heraldry kept in more modern times throughout Europe. **

**Many noble families in our world started off as soldiers and military leaders granted land/castles/and defensive titles that become hereditary and later lost most of their military significance. Such is the case of Hyrule's nobility here. The 'true' knightly clans paled in comparison when it came to wealth and power, but had age and great members to add to their prestige. With the virtual extinction of the Knights many distant members through the nobility claimed their names and glories as their own. In creating a formal registry for the Veles family OoT!Zelda was able to grant Link's family their proper stature and ensure the Royal Family had final say over those who could claim to be the 'heirs' of Hyrule's last recognized hero.**


	12. The Masterless Mare

**Era: Set before the story proper and then within the epilogue.**

Ilia's mother had once said the waters of Ordona's sacred spring could heal any ailment; mind, body, and soul. A jar of its water, even removed from Ordona's protections, still carried a touch of grace that could deter minor spirits of mischief and misfortune.

Like human herbs and Hylian healing magic, Ordona's blessing had failed her mother in the end. The foul old doctor all the way from Castle Town her father had paid so many rupees for had sneered it was a wonder a Light Spirit stooped to heal minor wounds for mere humans, let alone deliver them from mortal illness. Ilia's mother had taught her to never wish harm on another sentient soul, lest the wrong ear be listening, but that had not stopped her from wishing her father had done more than rudely shove the doctor back onto his wagon and chase him out of town.

Now Ilia sat at Ordona's shore. She did not feel healed, but at least the sanctuary provided a quiet place to retreat from her father's crushing hugs and the village's pitying looks and choking consolations.

Ilia didn't want hugs or confirmations her mother was with the Goddesses. She was seven years old and _wanted her mommy._

Clenching her eyes shut against the tears, Ilia buried her face into her hands to stifle her sob. The running water muffled her sniffles but Uli and Pergie would find her quicker if she cried loud enough for the entire forest to hear.

When something warm and big bumped into her shoulder Ilia wondered if they heard her shriek in Castle Town. Whirling around so violently she fell into the spring, the little girl stared into big brown eyes. It took her a moment to realize they were set into the the filthy face of the hugest horse she had ever seen.

The wagon trains that wound their way up and down from the Sea Province and into Hyrule proper preferred a more direct route than through Ordon Village. Ilia had mostly seen sturdy little ponies before or else thin little horses that shuddered under the heavy packs sleazy-looking merchants burdened them with. Her father had never let them stay long enough to set up their wares. From her place on the ground Ilia thought this mare could pull every villager in Ordon behind her.

Ilia stood up. Even on her feet the mare still looked huge. For a moment she hugged that huge head as best she could and sobbed into the mare's tangled mane. Then she pulled back to wrinkle her nose.

"Where on earth have been?" It was impossible to tell the mare's color beneath the dirt caking her fur and bunched her mane in stinking clumps. Ilia's eyes widened at the streaks of red in the mess. "Oh, no! Are you hurt?"

Her mother had always chided Ilia on keeping Ordona's sacred spring free of impurities, but she figured the Light Spirit would forgive her for healing a hurt and lonely horse. Gently grabbing a handful of man, Ilia led the horse deep into the spring as she dared into the spring. The horse didn't shy away from her touch, but followed her, meek as one of Hanch's kids were before they grew horns and short tempers.

Ilia knew herds of horses ran wild in the vast fields that divided Hylian towns and villages from each other. There were certainly none so far south and in such thick forests. Besides, this mare was far too tame to have even been feral for very long. Ilia wondered what had happened to her owner.

Ilia had no combs or buckets, no cleaning tools but her own two hands. Scrubbing at the red streaks first, she was relieved to find no wounds beneath the mud. Either Ordona had healed her quickly or else the blood had never been hers to begin with. Ilia's alarm grew.

"Is that blood all your rider's? Is he out there somewhere?"

The mare blinked sedately back at her, in no clear rush to be anywhere. She had no saddle or bridle. When Ilia coaxed her into lifting a hoof, she no signs of a horseshoe.

With no clear emergency Ilia turned her attention to cleaning and untangling the snarls in her mane and tail. Beneath the filth the mare was a pale red roan with a white blaze and stockings. She looked faded, like Hanch's very old goats did when left in the sun after a long summer. Prodding at the hairs, Ilia discovered the roots of the mare's coat to be deep red. While her mane and tail looked almost yellowed, their roots were snow-white. Her muzzle must have been black at one point, but was now a washed out gray, like the black where her yellowed stockings met her faded coat.

Ilia giggled. "You're not old. Someone just left you out in the sun for too long." Then she frowned when she noticed the mare's ribs faintly visible through her pelt. "And without much to eat, either."

Raising a hand to the mare's shoulder, Ilia guided her down the road and to a warm stable and a hearty helping of oats.

* * *

Mayor Bo was no struggle to his little girl bringing home little animals to nurse back to health, everything from baby squirrels to birds with broken wings. Ilia had always been a gentle soul, but also lonely. The other children in Ordon Village were years younger than her. When she tired of playing big sister to the village, she turned her attention to walking the nearby woods and looking for anything small enough to carry home. Even rats and insects, snakes and spiders, pests that terrified most little girls found a place in Ilia's makeshift clinic.

He had certainly never thought his baby would bring home a full-grown horse.

Once the horse had been stabled and Ilia escorted back home under Pergie's watchful eye Bo turned his attention toward his daughter's latest charge.

Despite Hanch's gentle coaxing the mare never struggled to accept a halter or being led into the barn. She didn't bite when he opened his mouth to check her teeth. "Tame as can be," he murmured. "And somewhere around ten years old, I reckon. Figure she wondered off from some wagon train."

Bo's eye roved over the horse. There was no doubting her size and strength but she did not carry herself like the slow but steady wagon-horses. She had been bred for more than pulling heavy weights. From how gracefully she moved Bo knew she could carry an armed rider without sacrificing speed or agility. He knew a warhorse when he saw one.

"Whoever lost her paid a fortune for her," he said gruffly. "We'll keep her safe and sound 'til he comes around."

* * *

Ilia might have guided the mare home, but Mayor Bo made it clear from that very first day she belonged to none of them, that they were simply keeping her safe until her real owner came to claim her.

Ilia cried and argued whoever had abandoned a horse like that didn't deserve one in the first place. Bo knew how badly they were both still reeling from Irina's death, but on this matter he put his foot down. The mare's true owner was obviously a man of great power, likely Hylian. Bo knew all about how Hylians in power loved to judge the humans that lived at the fringe of their kingdom. The last thing Bo wanted were accusations of horse theft lodged against anyone in his village.

When he and Rusl put out subtle rumors of a lost horse, those that would not encourage false claimants seeking a prize animal for themselves, those in Ordon Village found ways to help the mare earn her keep. Whatever her original purpose, the mare did not shy away from manual labor. She accepted a horse collar and plowed pumpkin fields. She carried bundles of firewood. She patiently put up with Hanch's and Ilia's attempts at riding her and quickly proved an effective goat herder.

Everyone in Ordon Village had their own name for their sole resident horse; Genna, Sweetheart, Pumpkin. Intuitive little Ilia finally devised Epona, a regal name that every Ordon swiftly adopted.

When Pergie's labor with her second labor went south, Epona and Rusl rode hard to the closest human town and brought back a true midwife in time. Both Pergie and Malo ultimately earned their lives to Rusl's brave ride through Faron Woods and Epona's swift hooves.

No matter how much Bo came to love Epona, he quickly became sick of her numerous escape attempts. Not even a month since her arrival, Hanch left her penned up with the goats one afternoon and returned that evening to discover her gone. They followed her hoof-prints into a part of the forest so treacherous Rusl force them to abandon the search. For two days they believed Epona devoured by Wolfos until she calmly trotted into town, her mane and tale riddled with briars, and nibbled at Uli's flower patch like nothing was amiss.

Bo inspected every inch of her but found no injuries. She smelled of soil and the deep woods.

So began their futile attempts to keep the mare from running off and getting herself captured or killed by Goddesses knew what. No matter how high Hanch raised his fence Epona leaped right over. Her incredible strength snapped halters and hobbles. When she vanished from her stall Hanch started sleeping in the barn to keep vigil.

He awoke one night to discover Epona leaning over her stall door and nibbling the bolt free with her teeth. One nudge from her head had pushed open the barn door and granted her way to freedom. Hanch retaliated with iron bars on her stall and a padlock on the barn doors.

Bo's guilt over such drastic measures died when he started hearing wolf howls at night. Epona and the flock wouldn't be lost to a hungry pack, Din dammit!

The sound of his goats raising hell inside the barn brought Hanch running that night. He arrived to find the barn doors thrown open, their lock thrown carelessly aside, and Epona vanished.

With a human suspect clearly the culprit Bo, Hanch, and Rusl investigated the scene for any scrap of evidence. They found none but Epona's hoof-prints. not bound for the road, but the wild woods.

Three days later Bo found the mare patiently waiting at his doorstep for Ilia. She stank of decay and grave soil.

He washed the horse himself to rid her of the stench before his little girl discovered it. Bo himself had silenced rumors that the horse was some sort of monster or spirit in disguise. For the first time he wondered so himself. Epona's warmth and heartbeat assured him it was lunacy. No matter her jaunts she ate and drank and tired like a mundane animal. Perhaps she was more acute than most, but she had no powers of her own.

Rusl, sensing his alarm, pushed him once on the incident. Bo stonily told him to let it be. Epona was no danger to any of them.

In time Bo and the villagers learned to overlook Epona's oddities. She belonged to all of them and none of them. She went where she willed. At time she was gone for days on end. Sooner or later, she always returned.

Bo dreaded the day Epona would never return and break his daughter's heart. However, he far feared the day they might meet the mare's true master.

* * *

Ilia knew in her heart of hearts the night Hyrule was finally free of evil was the night she lost Epona forever.

She wept for the mare that had been her companion and confidant. They were tears of sadness, not bitterness over what had been stolen from her. Epona had never been hers to begin with. No matter how Ilia had fussed over any potential strain and injuries, she could never completely delude herself into believing her Epona's sole owner. The mare had always gone where she willed. She had been there for Eragon and Rusl and Murtagh when they had all needed most, as she had once been there for Ilia.

Of course Eragon attempted apologies when he next saw her in the flesh. Ilia waved him off.

"Is she at peace?" she simply asked.

"Yes." His blue-gray eyes unflinchingly met hers. "She waited a long time to be with those she loves. Now she's with them forever."

Ilia smiled honestly. "I'm glad. Now... what do you know about horses?"

He had offered to pay for a replacement, though they both knew none could fill the void Epona's gaping absence had rendered. Ilia knew he could help her find one that came close.

 **I can't remember why I felt compelled so make Epona the OoT!Epona, but it worked for what I wanted TRR to be. At the Castle Town horse market Ilia will fall in love with a foul-tempered, hardy little mare she'll name Sahi... but that's a story for a different time.**


End file.
